


Stars Are Bright But Lonely Souls

by lady_laverty



Category: Les Misérables (2012)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Asexual Character, Depression, Drinking, Eating Disorders, F/M, I'm so sorry if Grantaire's OOC I really am
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-22
Updated: 2013-06-22
Packaged: 2017-12-15 18:46:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/852831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lady_laverty/pseuds/lady_laverty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire is not a bright and happy person, not like the Les Amis are. He can't fathom having such hope for humanity when it never changes. People are hurt, people die, because of their beliefs, because of who they love, because they have a mental illness. Nothing is going to change that because humanity, in Grantaire's opinion, is an extremely xenophobic species.</p>
<p>He hurts, a lot, and he doesn't have anyone to tell. So he tries to help himself the only way he can; by painting and drinking a lot more than what is healthy. Then he meets Enjolras, who is so bright and so good that he can't help but love her.</p>
<p>But she doesn't seem to love him back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stars Are Bright But Lonely Souls

**Author's Note:**

> This is the creation of several tumblr users (you know who you are) convincing me to write this even though I thought I would get a lot of backlash for my change in Enjolras' gender. Please read and review!

 

 

What he does _could_ be called painting, if you’re one of those people who has to put things into neat little boxes otherwise you don’t understand. He, Grantaire, Grant, whatever, just lets his soul flow, paint splattering and flying as he revels in the feeling of letting his emotions, his sorrow, flow onto the canvas. It helps him like no alcohol or pills ever could, even though he uses them like a person needs air. He doesn’t have anyone to talk to and this saddens him even more—

Enough. He isn’t going to dwell on his lack of relationships with anyone, he’s _painting_ and this is his time to be free of the demons that weigh on his shoulders, the ones that drag him further and further down. His canvas is red and yellow, dripping with blues and blacks and he mourns the fact that this will probably the last time he’s able to do this now that he’s getting a roommate. A _female_ roommate. He hopes she’s not one of those girls who are bitchy and try to suck every bit of attention that is in a room to themselves. But maybe she won’t be, maybe she’ll be a good person, someone who will be able to tolerate him for more than a few months before complaining to the campus authorities about his alcohol consumption and insomnia affecting their work and themselves. They don’t think of him and he’s kind of okay with that because he doesn’t want people rifling through his memories and feelings and saying _you need to get over this_ because he _can’t._ Nothing is helping him and if he can’t help himself then no one can.

He was like this for as long as he can remember and he doesn’t know what he’d do if he got better, if he was patched back together like a toy to make something that resembles a functional human being. He mentally slaps himself because he’s dwelling again and gets back to squeezing more paint onto his palette. It’s 11 in the morning and he _really_ should be at his French class, learning about something that he thinks he’s okay at. But all it is doing is bringing up things he doesn’t want to deal with in the morning, let alone sober. He has a whole day and he doesn’t want to be in a foul mood all day. He drags himself off his stool tears apart his despairingly small wardrobe, picking out a plain white shirt and a pair of jeans, grabs his books and meanders his way out of his room and out onto the campus grounds which are horrifyingly cold and _he’s made a huge mistake._ It’s winter, for god’s sake why didn’t he remember that. He picks up his pace and heads for the old brick building, his hair whipping about him.

* * *

“Hey, buddy, you have a minute?” Grant represses the urge to slam his head into the desk when an incessant voice enters his ears. He’s listening to the professor rave on about the events leading up to the French Revolution, he doesn’t want to listen to someone who looks like he just barely left highschool. It doesn’t matter that the professor is basically rambling but he could still learn something, something that catches his interest, but the boy keeps talking so he sends a brief prayer to a god he doesn’t believe in and he’s sure doesn’t believe in him to grant him patience and turns.

Jesus, it’s like looking at a puppy. The kids blue eyes are shining with life and it hurts but he pays attention because there is no way of understanding the professor now, he’s too far into the ramble that his lessons turn into. The freshman is one of those political advocators and he’s hoping that he’s not trying to entice him to come to one of their meetings. The Les Amis has a name for being really out there and political, not to the point of violence, but they have a protest for something or other every weekend. He’s seen them around, when he’s deigned to remove himself from whatever backwater bar he’s situated himself in for the night and decided to come to the little room he calls his home. They hand out pamphlets and gain massive gatherings but are peaceful. From what he’s heard, they want a revolution in the treatment of LGBTQA peoples and poverty stricken families.

“Yeah, I’m ‘kay, Combeferre, isn’t it right?” His voice is slightly slurry because _goddamn_ he’s too tired to deal with political shit right now but contrary to college student belief he’s polite and listens to him.

“Yes. I just wondered if you’d be interested in attending a protest tomorrow out the front of the science building tomorrow, if you have nothing on. Couple of my friends and I have noticed you a few times in the past few months, I just thought you might have been confused as to whether you had to join Les Amis to go to them. So this is me cordially inviting you to a protest on a Saturday morning. Don’t come if you don’t want to, it’d be nice to see you though.” Combeferre seems to speak without taking a breath and his sentences run into each other which is endearing. Comboferre flicks his curly brown hair out of his eyes and hands him a flyer. Students are filling out and Grantaire feels a headache beginning behind his eyes and the urge for a drink, a lot of them, intensifying.

“Sure, I’ll try to make it. Thanks for the flyer.” He babbles, wanting to get out of the auditorium as fast as he can, back to the only friends he has: loneliness and alcohol. His diminishing bank account should be enticing him to stop drinking so much but he doesn’t really eat that much and he suddenly notices the skinniness that his body has acquired over the last few months. It scares, it scares him _a lot_ , but what can he do about it? He can barely get himself out of bed on a good day, how is he supposed to help himself get over any of this? He stands up too quickly, swaying violently, and tries to pull his backpack on but he can’t because his hands are shaking too hard. He decides he doesn’t care and just takes off, taking the stairs two at a time and fleeing down the corridor and out of the building. He runs in the opposite way of his dorm because he isn’t ready to go back there and it’s only 2:30 in the afternoon. His favourite bar is down the road from his college and he can’t resist the allure of not having to deal with the ton of feelings he has brewing inside of him when he’s drunk.


End file.
